


Talk

by jenish (phizzle)



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Community: damnyouwentz, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-30
Updated: 2006-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phizzle/pseuds/jenish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Beta by sobrellevar. For chewychicle in the first DYW fic exchange.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Talk

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by sobrellevar. For chewychicle in the first DYW fic exchange.

**a.**  
Secret. He tests the word out in his mind, each syllable. _See_, a nice start, soothing – _cret_, pulls you up sharp. _Seeecret_. _Secrettt_.

He really needs to stop looking at the word so hard. It's lost all meaning, and now colours are starting to look odd.

Patrick shakes his head to clear it. Andy notices. "You alright, man?"

"Yeah." He cricks his neck for good measure. "I need some fucking sleep, but other than that, just dandy."

"Don't we all," Andy grins, jerking his head to indicate Pete and Joe, slumped on each other in the back of the bus -- spark out, Patrick sees.

He turns away.

~

**b.**  
"Trick. Pattycakes. Paddles. PatPatPat."

"Pete, would you please never call me Paddles again? Or Pattycakes. I swear, I will punch you in the nose if you call me Pattycakes."

Pete just grins. "So you _are_ speaking to me."

Patrick shifts. "Any reason why I shouldn't be?"

Pete's head is on his knee and that puppy look won't work with him this time. No way. "You tell me," Pete says, and damn those eyes. _Damn you, Wentz._

"No," he lies.

~

**c.**   
_"Shouldn't we…?"_

_"What?"_

_"Pete."_

_Patrick's eyes were open. Why the fuck were his eyes open? Maybe there was a bump in the road. He'd go back to sleep in a second._

_Except that, wait._

_"Pete, come on, we have to keep it down."_

_"Oh, really? Seems kind of up to me."_

_A giggle. Joe sounded stoned. Pete sounded drunk. Patrick decided that his stomach had not just dropped entirely out of his body. That he couldn't see what he had just caught a glimpse of. That Pete definitely had a shirt on, no, really, there was a very deceptive trick of the light and Pete was most decidedly **not** kissing Joe right this second._

_Patrick turned over and shut his eyes._

~

**d.**  
Heat, wetness. A blessed shower after a month on tour. Water warm on his skin, pounding his muscles in just the right way. He tipped his head back and groaned.

Skin on his. His eyes opened, closed again as Pete's mouth found its mark. They kissed, damp, Patrick's fingertips on Pete's shoulders, their whole bodies leaning in together. Patrick sighed, Pete gave a contented growl, and they began to move against each other.

~

**c. + a. x b. = d.**  
"Patrick, seriously." Pete eyes him wearily. It's the third week of him prodding and poking at Patrick, every movement like jogging an aching tooth. "What the fuck is going on with you?"

_Everyone's got a secret, oh, can they keep it?_ "Nothing." _Just a song stuck in my head and a best friend who's._

Pete angles Patrick's face so he can't look away. "What?" he asks.

"Leave it." This should be enough, has caused the end of conversations in the past. Pete watches him. "Come on, let's get this bit finished. And don't _look_ at me like that."

"I'm just worried," Pete says, picking a note or two on a string. The guitar on Pete's lap quivers. Wood and space and acoustics make perfect sounds under Patrick's skin. He stares at his pages, the song come together piece by piece.

"Don't be," is all he can say.

"Fuck you." Patrick looks up, surprised to see Pete this angry. "_Fuck you_, Patrick Stump. Since when do we keep secrets?"

"I never know if I have all of yours," Patrick says. It doesn't mean anything. Something to cover what he isn't saying.

Pete just stares at him. "Fuck you," he repeats.

_I wish you fucking would._ Never out loud, but maybe Pete can hear it anyway. "You didn't tell me about you and Joe."

"Me and Joe what?" Something in his expression has changed. Still on the wrong side of pissed off, but.

"You and Joe. Making out." He can't look anywhere but his hands.

Pete blinks. Patrick can't see it, but he can feel it. "I – what?"

Patrick looks up. "You were drunk, he was stoned, in the … bus." He stops. "You don't remember." Statement.

Pete shakes his head slowly. "I tell you everything that I know myself."

"Right." Patrick is having a very strange sensation that he can't put a name to.

"You," Pete starts. Stops. Moves a little closer. "You?"

"Pete," Patrick says. Small voice, fixated by his hands. Pete's fingertips come into his line of vision, touching gently.

Patrick turns, eyes closed. Pete's mouth is right where he hopes it would be. Soft and warm and Pete breathes things into the kiss. "You were jealous," he whispers, and, "How long have you …?" and, "Been driving me nuts, you idiot," and, "Patrick."

"Shut the fuck up, Pete." Patrick smiles, the curve of his mouth taking one of Pete's lips with it.

"You haven't talked to me in weeks and now all you say," Pete breathes as Patrick's hand connects with the patch of skin left exposed between jeans and shirt, "is shut up?"

Patrick is blushing. "Yes," he murmurs, Pete's hands on his arms, Pete's leg inching up between his own, Pete's fingertips making circles and swirls, Pete's skin under his palms, Pete's tongue lapping at his lip, Pete, Pete Pete "Pete."

"I think," Pete whispers, shifting slightly and running his nose along Patrick's jaw until he nuzzles under his earlobe and flicks his tongue against the skin there, causing Patrick to whimper, "I just broke your brain."

"Not true," Patrick protests as Pete's mouth drags lower, lips and tongue and _teeth_ oh. He doesn't notice as his back strains upwards.

"No?" Pete hums against his throat, and that feels fucking nice, and then Pete's hand is inside his t-shirt and on his stomach and he wants to scrunch into a ball but Pete's mouth is still on his neck and that is very distracting and maybe Pete is breaking him just a little.

"No," Patrick nevertheless insists, even when Pete's hand dips and undoes the button on his jeans with one smooth flick while Pete's teeth simultaneously tug just a little at his earlobe. "Pete," he adds, palm curling and uncurling.

"Patrick," Pete responds, and is that – okay, Pete's hand is without a doubt now in Patrick's pants. Patrick's hips push up of their own accord. "I'd ask if you're okay with this, but, you really seem to be."

Patrick kisses him to shut him up.


End file.
